


only to wake and hide your face

by PaperRevolution



Series: outer-space mover [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 00:25:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12569552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperRevolution/pseuds/PaperRevolution
Summary: Space AU. Fingon rescues Maedhros from a POW camp on a gods-forsaken planet. Come night time, though, Maedhros feels like he's back there.





	only to wake and hide your face

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Warning for implied sexual assault. Melkor is a disgusting individual.  
> 2\. This takes place some time after Fingon's big ol' Heroic Orphean Rescue. How long? Who knows? Time is fluid in space.

“No one is coming for you.”

Face pressed into the dirt and there’s grit in his eyes and in his mouth and he can’t breathe and the heat and the dark is pushing him down and down and and and—

“You’re my favourite. My favourite one; my fiery one. You and I make a good pair, don’t we?—“

—and he tries—tries to struggle—he thrashes and kicks and tries—

“—Twisted—“

—Hands tangled in his hair, grabbing and pulling. He tastes salt. Hot tears—

“—Rotten—“

—tries and tries and and and—

“—Disappointments.”

*

“It’s all right. Hey. Hey, sshh. Sshhh, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

Someone’s arm is wrapped around him. Someone’s hand is tangled in his hair.

He wrenches away. The sudden movement brings with it a bolt of pain that lances through him, white hot.

Twisted.

Rotten.

Somebody is making a low, animal sound; a shuddering, keening moan serrated by ragged breaths. It takes him several moments to realise that the sound is coming from him. He can’t make it stop.

Pathetic. Worthless. Disappointment.

“It’s all right,” someone murmurs, quiet and even, “You’re safe. You’re home. You’re safe; I promise.”

It’s not Him. It’s not Him, of course it’s not. It’s only Fingon.

Maedhros makes himself pull in a breath and release it. The sound is ragged, but the air is clean and cool and a little dry. Regulated air. Ship air.

He opens his eyes.

The room is lit faintly blue by a portscreen resting face-up on a small metal cabinet affixed to the wall. In the semi-darkness, he makes out the blocky bulk of another, larger cabinet on the far wall. Everything is smooth and featureless and neutral, dully gleaming. Something about the everyday-ness of it all grounds him.

Relief floods him like something chemical. A sob catches in his throat, strangled.

“I’m going to get up and move where you can see me, okay?” says Fingon carefully. Behind Maedhros, there’s movement and his whole body tenses, braced for something. But the mattress shifts and resettles, and then he hears soft, quick footsteps.

A familiar figure appears in his line of vision and drops into a crouch. His expression is still, but there’s a concerned little crease between his dark eyebrows.

“Okay, look at me,” says Fingon. “Tell me where we are.”

He swallows hard. “On—“ his voice is croaky. “On the ship. My father’s ship. In—“ In the med bay? No. “In my—Oh.” His eyes flicker upwards, taking in the latticework of metal slats supporting the bunk above his. “Maglor. Did I wake him?”

“We traded. He bunks with Turukáno now, remember?”

Oh.

“Right. Sorry.”

Fingon’s smile is thin; forced. “Stop apologising.”

Suddenly, he’s horribly aware of himself. Of his scarred body, trembling and sweat-drenched and curled inwards like a small child or a wounded animal. The sheets are tangled around him, a crumpled knot of damp cotton. In this sudden burst of clarity, he has to push down a bizarre desire to laugh.

“You were dreaming,” Fingon says. It isn’t a question.

He tries fitfully to prop himself up, then gives it up as a lost cause. “Dreaming. Yeah,” he tries so hard to keep his voice light, but the bitterness in it must be unmistakeable. “Pleasant stuff. Normal. Bit borning really. You know how it is.”

Fingon’s expression is serious. “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.”

“And the highest form of intelligence.”

They laugh, but the sound is strained on both sides.

“Sorry,” says Maedhros again, “For waking you. I—“

“Stop.”

But he pushes on resolutely. “You stop. Stop being so patient all the time. I don’t deserve any of this from you. I deserve—“

“If you’re going to start badmouthing yourself, I’m going to stop listening. You know how I feel about lies.” Fingon leans forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the mattress. “Listen. I’m not going to disagree with you that things are messed up. I’m not going to give you some trite Maglor-rubbish about how everything’ll be okay. But none of this is your fault and you don’t deserve any of it—for Gods’ sakes, nobody deserves that—and I’m going to keep telling you so until you believe it. Even if I have to say it a thousand times. So don’t go there, all right? We can talk about it, if you want to, but what we can’t talk about is how you supposedly deserve this. That’s not up for debate.”

Maedhros blinks. Exhales. “Am I going to get the uncensored version of that speech, next time?”

“Er. What?”

“Fingon the virtuous, too pure of heart to so much as swear a bit even when he probably wants to clock his infuriating bunkmate over the head with something solid.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Fingon the family-friendly; appropriate for kids even in Rage Mode.”

“Oh, Ilúvatar above.” For the first time, Fingon’s laughter is genuine, and Maedhros feels the knot in his chest loosen a little. But then the other, younger man’s expression grows solemn again. “Will you—will you be all right, now? Do you want me to stay down here with you or sleep in my own bunk?”

Maedhros makes an impatient noise. “Do what you want, as long as it doesn’t involve treating me like I’m made of glass—“ Stop being defensive. He’s trying to help. He takes a breath. “Sleep in your own bed; my sheets are a mess.”

“Your sheets are a mess?” Fingon lets out an incredulous snort. “I don’t give a darn about your sheets. If you want me to stay with you, I will.”

Pause. Brittle and weighted.

Then:

“Please.”


End file.
